I dreamed last night that I was an old, withered man, my height shrunken by age. I was being led around by my arm, held by someone younger because of my frailty. The fear of slipping and breaking my hip a nagging fear of myself and my assistant. We were inside a museum, maybe even the Guggenheim in New York, looking at my own art work on bright white natural light drenched walls. The people around were asking me questions about technigue and the subject and my mental stability when I painted them, and was I still afraid, and did I still mourn my loss. In short they wanted to know my motivations for painting what I did. My motivations were the loss of my Sam, in a cataclysmic American holocaust. A holocaust that I had survived and he had not. In the dream I had frightening flashbacks of witnessing his body being stuffed into an already overcrowded crematorium. Already at that time experiencing horrible guilt over his death and my still living. Killed cause he was arab, and gay, and I was somehow spared, I was not killed, but I had suffered his death a thousand times over since that time, and even in my old age my mourning was still a fresh and open wound of my emotions.

I awoke with a silent stifled scream, and even now I'm crying, and I hurt from deep within, and I don't ever want to loose my Sam in that way, or to have reason to create that art.